


Help

by elementalmystique



Series: Les Amis de l'ABC [3]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Tumblr art
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-17
Updated: 2013-12-17
Packaged: 2018-01-04 22:54:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1086633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elementalmystique/pseuds/elementalmystique
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written based on this adorable, adorable Tumblr art by JuanJoltaire: </p><p>http://juanjoltaire.tumblr.com/post/70230081907/really-long-class-doodle-havent-done-a-comic-in</p>
            </blockquote>





	Help

**Author's Note:**

> I've never written anything based on a Tumblr prompt/art piece before. Hopefully the creator doesn't hate me for it. 
> 
> Written a year or two before my own fic. Fits into the story but the art is so beautiful I couldn't refuse.
> 
> Forgive me if this is bad, but it's late and I have finals... ughhh.

He’s been feeling wretched for a long time now, but tonight, it’s all coming to a head.

It’s not because things are bad. In fact, they are great — his dad just got a promotion to head of the English Literature department, Celine’s doing well in her junior year of school and she just got voted to be Homecoming Queen, his mother’s self-published cookbook is earning her a tidy amount of money. He and Enjolras haven’t fought at all this entire fortnight, and the latter has even heard a morbidly funny story about Grantaire's idiot landlord over coffee. He’s helping out with drawing the group’s pamphlets, and his artwork keeps receiving high praise from everyone who even glances at it.

And yet. And yet.

He hasn’t gone out drinking tonight, even though he really wants to, because in his talk/pseudo-date with Enjolras earlier this week, they’d discussed the much-too-overdone topic of overcoming challenges. Enjolras has posed the challenge to him of not drinking one night a week, and in turn, he’s ordered Apollo to relax one night a week, knowing that challenge is just as difficult as the one where Grantaire puts aside his self-destructive tendencies for one night.

Instead of drinking, he roams the streets, stuffing red hands into the pockets of his too-thin black jacket. His green beanie is perched on his curls, but it feels like insufficient protection against the elements even as he walks restlessly through the fallen snow. No one is on the streets at this unearthly hour, in this awful cold — even the homeless and the drunk have sought the comfort and protection of warmer avenues. As he shuffles along, he concentrates on the gnawing inside of him, and chews on his lip. The temptation to drink has never been stronger, and for what? He can’t even put a name to the black hole that’s howling inside of him.

Nobody thinks anything is wrong. Of course not. Why would they? He’s lucky that the others even spares two glances for him whenever he’s around. Apart from Bahorel and Feuilly and Eponine, he’s not even sure the rest acknowledge his existence.

Okay, that’s a lie. Joly fusses over him like one of the others; Bossuet and Chetta too. Courfeyrac is never a stranger, of course; in fact, he always seeks Grantaire out whenever he requires a partner-in-crime in his antics. Jehan is as sensitive and lovely as a Disney princess, because it’s _Jehan_ , and Combeferre is always the sympathetic, fatherly figure whom even he has learned to trust. Marius may bumble his way around a lot — and yeah, once upon a time, he used to make Eponine cry, which is tantamount to capital punishment in Grantaire’s book — but he and Cosette are really wonderful together.

And Enjolras…

Their fearless leader hates him. No, he doesn’t. Yes, he does.

He can’t make up his mind.

It started years ago, when he was in middle school. Being laughed at and made fun of incessantly for not being good-looking enough, for being the loser that stuck to himself and drew or painted anything he could lay his eyes on, for wearing cheap castoffs. That was when his father was getting into alcoholism. He learned to bottle the words and stares and plastic smiles up inside of himself and pretend nothing was wrong in front of his family and teachers. From then onward, his apathy spread and didn’t stop, even when he met and befriended twelve of the best people in the world, here at college.

_You’re ugly. You’re too fat. You're too skinny. You’ll never do anything with your life. You’ll always be a worthless, good-for-nothing drunk. Even if things seem fine, they’ll all deteriorate. One day. One day. They’ll all leave you._

Tearing himself down has become as easy as breathing. And recently, it’s turned into a silent battle where he can’t do anything more than sit around and stare at the walls, where he has homework to do and a loving family to call and art to accomplish and it’s a hell of a lot easier to lie in bed and sleep for as long as the days go. The alcohol drowns the blackness inside of him, and makes him forget for a while. He hates everything, himself included — but not Apollo, he could never hate him. No, wait, yes, yes, he hates him. He hates him for being so perfect and beautiful and passionate and having a purpose in life. He hates him, irrationally, for being harsh and blind to what Grantaire can offer — but what the fuck can he offer Enjolras?

_Nothing._

Things aren’t going to get better, and he knows it.

Sometimes he thinks it would be easier to take a razor to his (surprisingly) unmarked wrists and let the pieces fall where they may. But he’s a fucking coward, and so it might be a whole lot easier to just take a bunch of pills and never wake up. He’s heard that Advil is good because sleeping pills can be vomited right back up.

Advil can’t. You’re basically guaranteed a death when you down a whole bottle of the stuff.

He hasn’t done it yet. He’s bought the painkillers and they sit on his bathroom shelf in his shitty hole of a flat. Day after day when he opens the bathroom cabinet, he sees them there, and wonders if today will be the day that he’s brave enough to do it. Whenever he buys a pack of cheap razors at the corner drugstore, he wonders. In the past couple of days, he’s perched himself on the edge of the curb, watching the cars roar by and feeling tears slide down his face that nobody sees, because this is New York City and nobody cares. He’s thought about stepping off the sidewalk and walking into the path of one of those insanely speeding yellow cabs and ending it all.

He can’t. He’s a fucking coward, that’s why.

Nothing’s wrong, and that’s why everything is terrible. He needs to man up and get over himself, because simply feeling tired all the time and angry at himself and generally hopeless isn’t going to do anyone any good.

He can’t get over it.

He does actually end up trudging across the road at a red light, and it’s only when a yellow cab honks furiously at him, the driver certainly a lot more sober than the laughing, booing teenagers in the backseat, that he starts and manages to shuffle to the other side of the road. Only when he’s safely on the curb again does he stop at a lamppost, and the tears course down his cheeks, because he was ready to do it, he _did_ it, and he can’t even successfully manage that. His heart is a raw hole in his chest, and he feels so fucked up and ugly and worthless and why the hell is he still here? Why, when there’s nothing good for him in store and there’s no point staying around?

Despite himself, his mind wanders to the conversation he’s had with Enjolras.

_I’ll do it, Apollo. If you accept my challenge._

He remembers Enjolras’ smile, the corners of his lips lifting into a smile that crinkles the corners of his ocean-blue eyes, and he can’t help the jackhammering of his heart in his chest, even now.

_All right. I’ll do it. You do it. And we report to each other._

Fast forward to the end of their so-called coffee date, because Grantaire’s not stupid or drunk enough — not drunk at _all_ — to consider that this is even a date. Enjolras puts on his red coat and that fucking black beret which would look pretentious on anyone else but instead makes him look damned beautiful instead — and he turns to Grantaire, offering him what seems like a non sequitur.

_R?_

_Yeah?_

_Promise me something._

_Anything, Apollo._

_Stop calling me that… If anything is wrong, promise me you’ll come find us. That you’ll come find me._

_Even at the ungodly hour of four in the morning?_

He jokes, but part of his thinks that he was completely serious and wanted to test the waters.

_Even if it’s at four in the morning. Okay?_

_Sure, Apollo, whatever you say._

If anything is wrong. Well, things are sure as hell wrong now, and he doesn’t know the why or what or when or how. He just knows that he wants to end it all, because he doesn’t want to be here, but at the same time, he fears to hope that things could get better.

He’s promised Enjolras.

_What harm can it do? At the least he’ll yell at you and maybe then you can man up and kill yourself and get it over with._

He starts the walk to the apartment building that Enjolras and Combeferre share. He’s shaky and unsteady and it’s not because of the alcohol that isn’t bubbling in his veins. He’s still crying, silent tears that slip down his face and leave salty ice in their wake, but nobody is around to see or hear or care.

Ironically enough, when he does reach the swanky building, it’s four in the morning — or, rather, ten to. He bends down and picks up a pebble from one of the landscaped rock beds, making sure he circles around so that he’s facing Enjolras’ bedroom window and not Combeferre’s. Combeferre is a saint, but he’s not the man Grantaire’s looking for right now, because he knows that Combeferre will never yell at him. Masochistic or not, Grantaire made a promise to _Enjolras_ , and he’ll talk to the keeper of that promise before the others, first.

He hesitates before throwing the pebble. When it clatters against glass, he winces, and instinctively starts to walk away before he stops himself.

Does he want Enjolras to yell at him, or does he want his Apollo to help him? Because if he’s looking for help, he should go to Combeferre.

He really shouldn’t be bothering anyone at this time of night. _Draco dormiens nunquam titillandus._ He’s only going to get everyone mad and grumpy and that’s not going to make him feel any better.

But does he want to feel better? Or does he just want to feel worse, so much so that he actually goes back home and upends that bottle of Advil down his throat?

Clumsily he digs his gloveless hands into his pockets and feels the gentle scratch of paper against his skin.

Oh, that’s right. He’s got some design drafts for the pamphlets. They’re petitioning for gender and race equality on campus, especially after a professor was suspended for some stupid shit, or something. He doesn’t even know. He never knows. That’s how things always are.

Before he can stop himself, he’s fishing a stub of a pencil out and scrawling something crudely onto the back of the paper. His mind screams for him to stop such childishness, but he instead bends down and picks up three more stones. They all hit the window in rapid succession, and he’s not sure if he should be proud that he knows where Enjolras’ room is located or that he’s not drunk enough — not drunk at _all_ — that his aim is well and true.

He’s ready to start plodding away when the window bangs open so hard that the sound splits the quiet night.

“Gran- _taire!_ It’s the middle of the night! What do you w—”

Even half-asleep, Enjolras is still gloriously mussed, in a dopey, sleep-deprived, sex-god-with-bedhead-sort-of-way. His tirade cuts off when his blue eyes land on Grantaire, several stories below, and Grantaire feels horribly exposed, standing in the middle of a snow-covered lawn with his stupid hair covered by a stupid green beanie, wearing a stupid black thrift store coat and holding up a fucking stupid sign like he’s revolting. Protesting his own miserable existence.

_Come on, Apollo. Yell at me. Let me end this._

And inside of him, there’s a tiny little voice yelling, as loud as it can, and as pathetically as he feels.

_Help me. Please. I can’t do this anymore._

The window sash bangs down onto the ledge, and the abrupt thud is like a door slamming shut in his face.

He feels his arms sag pathetically, his hands still holding tightly onto that sign. His fingers clench involuntarily, crumpling the paper, even as more tears gather under his eyelids and drip down his face from the corners of his closed eyes.

_Fuck._

Enjolras’ uncaring silence is somehow worse than if he yelled at him. He’s lost now, more than ever, because the refusal is so bleak and so stark but it makes him feel so worthless and so insignificant and now he really just wants to go get a beer and drink himself to death, and hopefully this time he won’t throw up, because he just wants to drown in it all and get out of this life for good.

He’s hunching his shoulders and shuffling away miserably, the blood roaring in his ears, cold and wet and worthless, when he hears crunching across the snow. He only turns when there’s a warm hand that grabs at his elbow, halting him in his tracks, and then there’s Enjolras standing there, barefoot and in a navy blue dressing gown thrown over his — how cliche — red pajamas. The snow is dotting his blond halo, and his stupid perfect face is so earnest and innocent and helpful and Grantaire immediately freezes up like a statue because he’s not sure what’s going on, and Enjolras just looks so damn beautiful that he can’t do anything but stare.

Instead of yelling at him or doing anything of the sort, Enjolras closes the gap between them and throws his arms around Grantaire. His warm form, snug from his bed, is glorious against Grantaire’s frigid cheek and body, and the scent of freshly shampooed blond hair and fabric softener and coffee is like the balm of Gilead. They’re roughly the same height, but he melts into the embrace. Enjolras presses his cheek against Grantaire’s shoulder, and Grantaire closes his eyes, surprised enough that he doesn’t wrap his arms and hug Enjolras back, but he’s not willing to let go of this moment just yet. The impulsiveness of this gesture is more precious than he can put into words, because while Enjolras can be affectionate and warm and kind when he wants to be — and he mostly always is — Grantaire’s had little more than friendly handshakes and shoulder-squeezes from him. He feels so soft, so warm, and so _loving_ that he can’t do anything else but keep his eyes closed and stay in the dream for just a little longer, the unfounded, foolish hope that one day they’ll be anything more than just enemies. Anything more than just _friends_.

But at this point, he’ll take friendship any day. His luck won’t go much farther than that, if it’ll even go at all.

His arms come up and encircle Enjolras’ form, almost reluctantly, like he’s afraid doing something this forward will scare Enjolras away like a spooked doe. Enjolras doesn’t budge, however; instead, he just presses closer to Grantaire. And then he speaks, and when he does, Grantaire’s fingers release the now-forgotten sign, and it flutters to their feet.

“You know I meant it when I said to come find us if anything was wrong, right?”

The sheet of foolscap paper has fallen to the snow, and on it is scrawled one big, black word in block letters.

HELP.

“I’m sorry,” he blubbers, and he knows he’s still crying, and he’s such a pathetic mess he can’t even bear it. “I’m sorry, I know it’s late, I just —”

Enjolras is shushing him, but not cruelly, not dismissively.

“It’s all right, ‘Taire. I’m here.”

He keeps his eyes screwed shut, even as Enjolras clumsily continues to mutter reassurances, and even as the tears still continue to fall, but for the first time in days, he hears Enjolras’ words, and he believes them. 


End file.
